Revisionist History
by Jennifer N
Summary: And she pauses, and the words finally sink in, and before she knows it a hysterical giggle escapes her lips, because isn't that just like her father, trying to offer her the one thing that can destroy her the most?" Sydney. Therapy. Angst. COMPLETE


**Title:** Revisionist History

**Author:** Jennifer N

**Summary:** "And she pauses, and the words finally sink in, and before she knows it a hysterical giggle escapes her lips, because isn't that just like her father, trying to offer her the one thing that can destroy her the most?" Sydney. Therapy. Angst. 1/1

**Category:** Angst

**Spoilers:** through 3.22, "Resurrection"

**Rating:** PG-13

**Distribution:** CM, SD-1

**Disclaimer:** _Alias_ belongs to the brilliant J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.

**A/N:** Thanks to the non-deletion crew for looking at this.

**Revisionist History**

She's spent more time than she will ever admit trapped in the confines of a therapy session.

Mommy crashed her car into the ocean, and she got to sit and draw pictures with the nice man and woman every Tuesday afternoon from three to four.

Father Knows Best caught her doing something else that was deemed inappropriate, and she had to pretend to spill her guts to the bespectacled old man with more diplomas than common sense.

Her best friend helped her realize she would soon hit rock bottom, and so she made a valiant effort to combat a disorder that was threatening to consume her.

And on. And on. And on.

Which is why she isn't too surprised when Jack Bristow—the man she sometimes thinks made seeing a shrink vogue in Los Angeles before its time—slips her a card with a phone number and tells her that this woman can be trusted with all of her secrets, CIA or otherwise. Apparently he's found someone new for her to confide in who doesn't answer to the name Judy and doesn't whore herself to the most evil man she's ever known.

She does what she did when she was fifteen and he wanted to send her for a nice dose of psychobabble in lieu of a father-daughter conversation and rolls her eyes at him, tucks the card in her pocket, and promptly ignores it.

Until the secrets become unbearable. Until she realizes that she doesn't know anyone, doesn't have anyone, never will belong. She's not sure she wants to die, but she's not certain she wishes to live either, so she reluctantly picks up her cell one day in rush hour traffic and dials.

Her appointment is next Tuesday from three to four. She smiles for a moment as she ends the call at the irony.

****

On Tuesday afternoon she hears the bell ring when she opens the door to the ice cream shop. She tells the bored teenager on duty that she's here for the birthday party in the back, and he waves her on, past the unisex bathroom and the door marked "Employees Only" until she reaches the door at the end of the short hallway.

An elegantly dressed woman is sitting at the table in the center of the room with a dish of ice cream in front of her. She stares at her from the doorway in amusement.

"Not what you were expecting, is it?" The therapist turns her head and smiles at her. She shakes her head. "Your ice cream is melting, Sydney."

She hesitantly steps forward and sits down, the legs of the chair scraping the tiled floor as she pulls her legs under the table. "What's your name?" she asks finally.

"My name is Dr.—" but she has taken a bite of the ice cream, and it's not the heady rush of chocolate coursing through her, it's _coffee_, and oh God, what kind of sick joke is this, and why did she never tell anyone that she can't eat that anymore, because it's her and it's that night and it's her whole world shattering into a million pieces and she's falling and she's falling . . .

She violently shoves the cardboard cup off the table and onto the floor three feet away. She looks up, eyes wide and body on alert, poised to fight, to ask this lunatic what the _hell_ she was thinking . . .

"I take it your father incorrectly told me your favorite ice cream flavor."

And she pauses, and the words finally sink in, and before she knows it a hysterical giggle escapes her lips, because isn't that just like her father, trying to offer her the one thing that can destroy her the most?

She pushes her hair behind her shoulders—she's trying to untrain herself, not tuck it behind her ears like she used to, like _she_ used to—and takes a deep breath. "Did I hear you say that I could call you Dr. Why? Like w-h-y?"

"You heard that despite your outburst? Interesting," the doctor murmurs; she can see her mentally taking note. _Patient has excellent multitasking abilities_. "It's an old nickname from always asking too many questions. Useful in my line of work."

"Where have you studied?"

Dr. Why—what an absurd name, something out of a bad spy movie or spoof, she thinks—tilts her head, her green eyes sparkling. _Pretend they're not green. Pretend they're blue or brown or orange. Not green_. "My degrees are in psychology, and I retired from the intelligence community several years ago."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Why don't you answer one of mine." They stare each other down, two women ridiculously sitting in the middle of what yesterday afternoon was a six-year-old's birthday party. "Who are you, Sydney Bristow?"

She shrugs uncomfortably and pushes the hair behind her ear—dammit. "There's nothing to tell," she hedges. It's rote after all these years, comfortable, familiar. It's the reminder from that little voice inside.

_"I'm __Sydney__, and I'm this many—" she holds up six fingers—"and I like to play dress up."_

_"I'm __Sydney__, I'm twelve years old, and my favorite color is blue."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I'm a junior in high school, and I want to be a teacher someday. Like my mom."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I live down the hall from you in the dorm, I'm thinking about majoring in English, and gosh, isn't this salad bar great?"_

_"I'm __Sydney__—yeah, I'm dating a med student—he is cute, isn't he?—and I'm putting myself through graduate school by working full time at a bank downtown."_

"Oh, I'm sure there is," she urges her. She rests her face in her hands. "Try me."

"My name is Sydney Bristow," she says dully. "I'm thirty-one years old, and I died two years ago." She pauses. "Satisfied?"

"Very." Dr. Why removes a folder from her attaché case. "Ordinarily a new patient would fill out dozens of forms with medical histories and confidentiality agreements. If you don't mind, I'd like to instead review with you the record I obtained on Agent Sydney Bristow."

"Fine," she says in a resigned voice, although her curiosity is piqued to see what from her personnel file her father culled to show to this latest in a long line of shrinks.

"Let's just hit the highlights today, shall we?" She skims through the file. "Sydney Bristow, born April seventeenth to Jack and Laura Bristow. Mother died at age six in car accident; raised by a succession of nannies and baby-sitters. Entered counseling on at least three separate occasions before graduating from high school—where you were valedictorian." She looks at her approvingly. "Entered UCLA as a freshman in the summer of 1994. Recruited into SD-6 that fall. Requested agent training within the first month; advanced quickly." She flips the page. "Engaged to Daniel . . . Hecht, summer 2001, who died just a few days later. Tragic." She turns the page again. "Double agent for the CIA, October 2001. 'See also Vaughn, Michael; Calfo, Francie; and Tippin, Will.' Died in a fire, May 2003. Reappeared in Hong Kong two years later." She closes the file. "You've lived quite the life, Sydney, especially for someone your age."

She mumbles something, words too low and indistinct to be discerned.

"What did you say, Sydney?"

She says them louder this time. "That's not me," she growls, waving her hand at the folder marked _Bristow, S. A._ "That doesn't tell who I am."

Dr. Why looks at her like the cat that ate the canary. "Fine. Then you tell me."

****

They spend her lunch hour together in sessions when work doesn't whisk her away on an airplane. They meet for Chinese, or Italian, or Mexican, or a hot dog from the vendor down the street as she alternately shares minute details of her life and avoids them altogether.

_"I'm __Sydney__, and I'm this many—" she holds up six fingers—"and my mommy's car fell into the water."_

_"I'm __Sydney__, I'm twelve years old, and my best friend is mad at me."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I'm a junior in high school, and a cop gave me a warning last week for speeding on this stupid bridge."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I live down the hall from you in the dorm, and oh my God, if my roommate follows me to the bathroom one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions."_

_"I'm __Sydney__—yeah, I'm dating a med student—he is cute, isn't he?—and I think I have that stomach flu that's going around."_

She tells Dr. Why about her new couch and how tricky her remote is for her new dvd player and how many movies she's purchased in the last few months. She talks about the road construction project that began before she died that is still a work in progress and how the birds chirping outside remind her that spring is here and anything and everything.

The doctor lets her talk, lets her ramble and break off into tangents within tangents of random information. She lets her dance around the issues at hand for three weeks, observes her patient slowly weave her way back to her initial question.

"That report you read to me in the ice cream parlor . . ." she trails off.

"Yes?" she prompts her.

"It's distorted. The facts are buried there, somewhere underneath . . . but that's not who I am. That's who people _think_ I am."

"Can you give me an example?" she asks cautiously, unsure if her young patient will answer or flee.

She tucks her hair behind her ears and curses under her breath. "Will and Francie," she says finally. "It had them listed as my friends. But they're not." Her voice wavers for a moment. "They _weren't_."

"Past tense? I presume they—"

"They both died around the time I disappeared."

"But you weren't friends," the doctor echoes skeptically.

"No. I mean, I can see why people made that assumption—Francie was my roommate for a long time, and Will was always over at our apartment—but we weren't true friends. I don't have any of those," she says dully.

"Define true friends."

"People who have no secrets from each other, who love and respect each other and do their best to help each other achieve their goals and be happy," she replies without hesitation. "Our relationships were never like that."

"According to your file, you and Francie were friends long before your affiliation with the CIA _or_ SD-6."

"I know." She frowns. "That wasn't the first secret I kept from her."

_"I'm __Sydney__, and I'm this many—" she holds up six fingers—"and I'm afraid God's going to make Daddy an angel too."_

_"I'm __Sydney__, I'm twelve years old, and my baby-sitter had to take me shopping for my first bra."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I'm a junior in high school, and I just threw up an entire cheesecake."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I live down the hall from you in the dorm, and you will not believe this—some bald guy handed me this business card last week and said I fit a profile, whatever that means."_

_"I'm __Sydney__—yeah, I'm dating a med student—he is cute, isn't he?—and I'm five days late and I realized this morning that I skipped a pill on the mission in Morocco and God, if I'm pregnant, I'm not sure who will kill me first—Sloane or my dad."_

"There were always secrets," she says softly, almost to herself. "With me, there is the truth, and then there is what everyone else sees. It's always been like that." She straightens her shoulders. "I'm tired of the secrets. I—I want to be more honest and maybe have a real relationship or two and get that damn cup of coffee someday and—and—"

"And so what we do is we retrace your steps, discover who the real Sydney is, and then you can move forward," she interrupts smoothly. "You'll be having that cup of coffee in no time." She hears a very unladylike snort escape her patient's lips.

"I wouldn't count on it."

****

They make up for three days of missed sessions on a Sunday afternoon in the ice cream shop they met at before. She jabs the spoon into her one scoop of vanilla ice cream and one scoop of chocolate but doesn't lift the spoon to her lips.

Dr. Why—maybe she's a fan of Bond movies, she muses—absently fixes her hair with her left hand. "You claim, Sydney, to be tired of the secrets. So here's what I want you to do. Tell me one thing you've never told anyone before."

She rolls her eyes. "Where exactly did you get these psych degrees?"

"It doesn't have to be a deep, dark secret or anything work-related that you _can't_ share. Something, anything, from the last thirty-one years of your life."

She swirls the melted ice cream, watches the white and dark brown blend into a new color. "There was this time I had a bad dream."

"Okay," her therapist says encouragingly. "Was it about your missing two years?"

She shakes her head. "I was four."

"In your dream?"

"No. Well, yes. I guess I was four in the dream." She shrugs. "I was four when it happened."

"What happened in this dream?"

She scoops up a little of the liquid onto her spoon, but ultimately places it back inside the cardboard cup. "My—my mother died. In the dream." She swallows and looks away. "That's all I remember. She died."

"It must have been a frightening dream if you still remember it," the doctor encourages.

"I guess so," she concedes slowly. "But it's not so much the dream as what happened next." She closes her mouth.

Dr. Why rolls her eyes. "Come on, Sydney. This only works if you _talk_. You were four, you dreamt your mother died. Then what happened?"

Her eyes narrow for a moment, piecing together a puzzle she hadn't known was before her. "I woke up and it was morning. I went downstairs in my long blue nightgown—it had my favorite cartoon character on it _and_ it was great for twirling," she enthuses without realizing it, "and my parents were in the kitchen making breakfast." She picks up a napkin and dabs her eyes. "It was all so _normal_, and they both seemed so happy . . . they asked me what was wrong. They could tell something was up." She visualizes the scene in her head: her four-year-old self climbing up into a kitchen chair, her father buttering toast, her mother pouring orange juice.

"What did you tell them?"

"I looked them in the eye and told them I was fine. I didn't want to make them sad, so to protect them I lied." The napkin is dropped into the ice cream dish. "And they went on with their morning, and they forgot about it, and _I_ forgot about it, but I learned something important that day. It's better to protect the ones you love, even the ones you _think_ you love, than to tell them the truth."

****

She notes that her patient retreats after this admission, afraid to speak the truth aloud, afraid to feel anything because of the potential repercussions. She returns to her vague statements, her inconsequential habits and opinions and stories from her life.

_"I'm __Sydney__, and I'm this many—" she holds up six fingers—"and I'm going to be a turkey."_

_"I'm __Sydney__, I'm twelve years old, and my baby-sitter is letting me have a slumber party. But don't tell my dad."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I'm a junior in high school, and if this home ec class ruins my GPA . . ."_

_"I'm Sydney Bristow, I live down the hall from you in the dorm, and you won't believe what I found in the library. My mom's masters thesis—I didn't even know she had written one. I stayed in the library most of the night reading it . . . what? No, it's nothing. I . . . I must have gotten some dust in my eye."_

_"I'm __Sydney__—yeah, I'm dating a med student—he is cute, isn't he?—and . . . that bruise? Oh, it's nothing. Just clumsy me. Nothing to worry about."_

She listens to her prattle about a looking glass and Tolstoy, smiles and nods appropriately, and waits.

She knows where the journey will lead her patient next.

****

They meet at a corner table in the back of a busy restaurant in LAX, an open tube of lipstick on the table between them.

"My flight for D.C. leaves in a few hours," she says casually as she checks her watch.

"So what is it this time? Breaking into the White House, the Pentagon?" Dr. Why asks curiously.

"Nah, just the Smithsonian." She shrugs. "It should be pretty easy. I pretend to be every nerd's living wet dream, then get the intel I need." She mutters, "It won't be the first time."

"You seem a bit upset," she offers.

"You could say that."

"Does it have to do with your mission?"

"Not exactly." She rubs her head with her hands and stops herself from pushing her hair behind her ear. "It's . . . complicated."

"Everything in your life, Sydney, is complicated. Whatever is wrong now is just a new wrinkle."

She glowers at the last word. "My mom—Sloane—and then there's Vaughn and _Lauren_—"

"Complete sentences are helpful," she interrupts, amused. "Nouns _and_ verbs."

"Don't lecture me," she snips. "You're not my mother," she continues before realizing what she's said.

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment there is a flash of something, a spark that wasn't there before. And then it is gone, and she once more wears the face of an annoyed psychologist.

She swirls the straw in her glass and tries to compose herself. "That report you have says that my parents are Jack and Laura Bristow, but we both know that's not true."

"Ah. You want to talk about Irina."

Her eyes dart up. "What do you know about her?"

"I've seen her file," she says cryptically. "I'd rather hear you tell me about her."

"Naturally. You must hate to read, making me tell you everything that you could read for yourself—"

"Sydney Bristow, stop acting like a spoiled child and tell me what's on your mind," her therapist explodes. "If this continues, I'm going to be forced to end our sessions."

"You wouldn't dare. You're getting paid too much by my father."

"This is a pro bono case of sorts. No money is exchanging hands."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course. You're one of my dad's millions of contacts who owes him a favor. Typical."

"Speaking of your father, I believe you mentioned Jack and Irina a few minutes ago?" she points out.

"Fine. Yes, my parents. If you can call them that." She takes a deep breath and continues. "My real parents are Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko. Laura Bristow was an alias. My mother was KGB. But you know all of this, don't you."

Silence.

"Irina Derevko was extracted by the KGB after ten years in America. From there . . . well, most of that doesn't matter." A pause. "Except we believe she was pregnant when she . . . left."

"You have a sibling?" One eyebrow raises. She refuses to contemplate the significance of this.

"There is this person we've been looking for. The Passenger. Someone else who has ties to Rambaldi. My sister. Half-sister," she corrects herself and wrinkles her nose.

"Half? Who is—"

"Arvin Sloane," she spits out. "Satan himself."

Dr. Why lets out a low whistle and then brings her half-empty glass to her lips. "So Irina had an affair which led to a child. That—"

"That what?"

"Nothing." She waves her hand dismissively. "Earlier you mentioned Vaughn and Lauren. How do they connect with this news?"

"Vaughn—he told Dad and I that Lauren's Covenant. We had suspected, of course, but now we know for sure. He has to stay with her until the CIA can build a solid case against her though."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Happy. Sad. Worried. Angry. Just your everyday emotions."

"Scared?"

She lowers her eyes. "Maybe a little."

"You know, a few months ago you wouldn't admit that."

"Score one for therapy."

"You're avoiding the issue again."

"When you've been in therapy as many times as I have, it's a helpful skill to possess." She winces, realizing she spoke out loud.

Her therapist leans forward and rests her arms on the table. "We still have some time left before your flight is called. You have two options. We either discuss your family and Vaughn, which seems to be weighing heavily on your mind, or we have a nice long chat about all of those other times you've been in therapy. It's your choice, Sydney."

She sits and reflects, her eyes closing as she lets the conversations and boarding calls fade into the background. "I saw a shrink after my mom died. After Laura died." She shrugs. "I was six, maybe seven by then. They tried a few sessions while my dad was still out of town—which I know now was code for solitary—but it didn't help. After he came back I went for about a year."

"Did it help you?"

"Maybe. For a while, anyway. I stopped having nightmares every night and eventually slept with a nightlight on, not every lamp in my bedroom and the light in the hallway." She gives the woman listening to her a small smile. "Sadly, that was considered a major feat for me."

"And you stopped your sessions?"

She nods. "I didn't even remember until recently that I saw someone after the car accident," she confesses. "But we've done so many crazy things, trying to get my memory back, that bits and pieces of my childhood are resurfacing that I never knew existed." She bites her lip and looks away.

"What have you remembered?"

She stares at her therapist, surprised at her tone of voice, noticing a hint of an accent that wasn't there before.

"Sydney, I know your—you well enough to know that you're hiding something. What is it that you have remembered in the last few months?"

"I am what some people would call the worst spy ever," she begins.

"If this is another avoidance technique, Sydney Bristow, I will—"

"It's not, I swear." She holds her hands up in defense. "Just stay with me."

She leans back in her seat and eyes the younger woman skeptically.

"I talk in my sleep. Usually about food," she adds, and her eyes darken. "Francie—when we roomed together in college she would tell me stories about all of the random, nonsensical things I had said the night before. So did Danny." She swallows. "And Vaughn.

"But I never remembered talking in my sleep as a child . . . until recently, that is." She looks around and examines their surroundings again before continuing. "I had this dream one night after Brazzel made me his lab rat. I was in my living room sitting on my dad's lap. I fell asleep while he was reading me a story, and he just let me sleep in his arms instead of trying to move me to my bed and wake me up."

"How uncharacteristically sweet of Jack," Dr. Why mutters. "It's amazing how we can alter people's personalities in a dream."

"Except it wasn't a dream."

"What?"

"Yes, I dreamt it a few months ago, but it was . . . a vision or something. Me regaining a lost memory." She nods emphatically. "I was in our old house, and I was asleep, but I was sort of awake too, and I mumbled something. My dad heard me and asked me what I had said, so I repeated it."

"And?" she asks expectantly.

"What I was mumbling . . . it wasn't English," she says slowly. "That was the part of the memory I finally remembered. I was speaking Russian."

"And when Jack heard you speaking a language neither you nor Laura knew . . ."

"Exactly. Except—"

"Except what? Don't shut me out now, Sydney."

"I'm not; it's just—this is hard!" she exclaims.

"And you're doing a good job," she soothes, patting her hand. "Took you long enough," she adds under her breath.

"I heard that," she retorts. "Back to the dream. When I woke up, I realized there was something wrong. I was wearing my red pajamas."

"You're concerned because of the pajamas you were wearing?" her therapist asks skeptically and sighs. "Sometimes, Sydney, I think you need more help than I can give."

"My red pajamas were my favorites to wear—when I was in preschool. Before I got to kindergarten I had outgrown them in one of my growth spurts, and Mom gave them away to one of the neighbor's kids." She looks at her meaningfully. "Mom died when I was in first grade."

"So what you're suggesting—"

"I'm suggesting that I overheard my mother on the phone with her handler, that I repeated something from that conversation in Russian to my father, and that he did absolutely nothing to apprehend her, instead letting her fake her death a few years later." Her eyes begin to fill with tears. "He _knew_ he was married to the enemy, but he still had to live the life of a happy husband and father. If she hadn't been extracted, who knows how long the deception would have continued?"

"And now Vaughn is caught in a similar situation, and—"

"And I have to go," she interrupts hastily. She closes the lipstick and tosses it in her purse as she stands. "I have a plane to catch."

Her therapist acquiesces and clasps both of her hands in hers. "Be careful. Call me if you need anything."

"I will. And . . . thanks."

As she watches her patient disappear into the terminal, she somehow knows they won't be continuing their sessions.

****

She twists her aching body in the hard-backed chair and does her best to get comfortable.

_Beep, beep._

The pages she read in Wittenberg disintegrated into ashes days ago, but the words still reverberate in her mind.

_Beep, beep._

The innocent victims.

_Beep, beep._

The projects detailed.

_Beep, beep._

The signatures making it okay.

_Beep, beep._

She has no mother.

_Beep, beep._

She has no father.

_Beep, beep._

In fact, there's only one person left whom she remotely trusts.

_Beep, beep._

And he is currently letting machines live for him.

_Beep, beep._

She watches his chest rise and fall, absently notices that it will take him forever to shave once he finally feels up to it.

_Beep, beep._

She wonders how she will break the news to him, if she will ever tell him everything she read on those pages—

The machines are silent.

And then they roar.

She is pushed out of the room by well-meaning doctors and nurses, finds herself pacing a small, windowless room down the hall. Time slows, and it rushes, and she has no concept of anyone or anything.

Until the doctor steps into the waiting room.

She doesn't wait to hear the news.

She rushes past him, into the stairwell, down the six flights of steps, and into the blinding sunlight. She fumbles for her keys and runs through the parking lot and at last spots her car two rows over. She unlocks the door and puts the key in the ignition and drives as fast as she dares.

She drives past warehouses and carousels and piers and antique bookstores and banks with big downtown offices. She uses her debit card one last time before dumping it into a trash can. She heads towards the freeway and dials number four on her speed dial.

"Hello, Sydney," her therapist answers—caller id, she presumes. "Are you ready to schedule our next meeting?"

"There won't be anymore sessions," she says in a low voice while she uses her left turn signal. "I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?" She sounds panicked, almost worried, she notes to herself with a modicum of satisfaction.

"Tell Jack and Irina that I want to be left alone. If I spot anyone suspicious, I won't hesitate to kill them."

She senses rather than hears the gulp over the line.

"One last thing."

"Yes?"

"It's been fun, Yelena—excuse me, Dr. Y. Say hello to your little sister for me." She clicks the phone off and tosses it into her seat beside her.

Thirty miles down the road she cleans the windshield of her new car and tosses the phone into a trash can while she pumps gas. She surveys the stretch of road before her and the sun rising in the distance. She gets back in the vehicle and enters the flow of traffic and turns the volume of her new radio up.

She keeps driving.

_fin_


End file.
